


hold my hand, i'll walk with you, my dear

by AquaMarinara



Series: Little Talks [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Dom!Juggie, F/M, Long-Distance Relationship, Phone Sex, a missing moment from 12th Grade of Little Talks, basically all smut, except with a little more of a show, idk you tell me, if you know what i mean, ish???, more like FaceTime sex but same difference, valentine's day fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 12:57:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17787833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaMarinara/pseuds/AquaMarinara
Summary: Long distance is hard, but Jughead’s dick is harder.Andfuck.She’d totally forgotten about her lack of skinny jeans.





	hold my hand, i'll walk with you, my dear

**Author's Note:**

> uhm. I really have no excuse for myself, so I'll just use the tried and true tactic of shifting blame. Don't look at me like that, okay? It was all @justcourbeau's idea...
> 
> She was also gracious enough to beta this piece for me, and to push me to write it even when my insecurities got the best of me. Thank you, Mel <3.
> 
> This little smutshot is a coda to Little Talks, in a sense, but really just a missing moment from the chapter 12th Grade. It can be read on its own, but I highly recommend reading Little Talks first because the context of this piece might not really make sense otherwise. But you do you, boo.
> 
> Anyways, I really hope you enjoy!

 

“So much for Galentine’s Day,” Betty mutters with a sigh as she sinks further into her bedspread. She and Veronica had planned to spend the day together months ago, but Betty’s best friend had decided to fly out to Ithaca at the last minute in order to surprise her boyfriend for Valentine’s Day tomorrow, leaving Betty all alone in Riverdale for the holiday.

 

She’ll be alone today, alone tomorrow. Sure, she’s more than happy for Veronica and Archie, but she can’t help but feel the tiniest bit jealous. Her father doesn’t have a private jet of his own that she could hijack to go visit her boyfriend.

 

Her boyfriend’s still in Chicago, half the country away from her, and Betty’s fingers curl around the fabric underneath her.

 

_ You can do this, Betty, _ she reminds herself, resolute on not feeling sorry for herself anymore. She’s been alone on every Valentine’s Day of her life leading up to now—she can live through yet another one.

 

Betty suddenly sits up, tugging her ponytail tighter.

 

(It had loosened considerably upon coming into contact with her pillows, hard. She’d been feeling quite dramatic, and had flung herself backwards, eyes closed, with less care for the wooden slats supporting her bed than Alice Cooper would ever approve of.)

 

She can do this. She can be alone and enjoy herself in the meantime.

 

Betty pulls all of the throw pillows that had fallen off her bed into a pile behind herself, opens up her laptop at the end of the mattress, and sets herself in between. Netflix to the rescue.

 

The tight waistband of her jeans digs into her stomach, cinching her waist in ways that hurt far more than she’d like for some casual movie-binging, so Betty undoes the button and zipper at her waist and peels the skinny jeans off her legs. 

 

The hum of her skin, dry from the brittle winter air, seems to sing louder as Betty shakes her legs out, and she relaxes as she sets her Netflix to widescreen and leans into her backrest of pillows.

 

The screen transforms from pitch black to a light gray, dark around the edges like a vignette, and Betty preoccupies her fingers by braiding small strands of her ponytail. The music hums, and she hums with it; when Bradley Cooper’s voice sifts through the air, Betty can feel the tears start to form.

 

“Oh, Pat,” she whispers at the beginning monologue, one she’s watched time and time again now. Then the upbeat sounds of a piano take over, the camera pans to a single, scribbled word on a piece of paper, and Betty reads it aloud. “Excelsior.”

 

She’s seen the word countless times in her life, living in New York. It’s on every seal, on every emblem with Liberty and Justice, the latin word on a banner below them. “Ever Upward.”

 

She can do this.

 

The montage of Pat’s time in the mental institution hurts, but Betty sits through it as she always does. She’s watched this movie so many times. Hollywood has its flaws, she knows, especially when it comes to depicting mental illness, but Betty can get past that. It’s nothing more than a romcom, underneath it all, realistic in the dramatic way that only fits in the movies.

 

More than anything, it helps her feel normal, if that’s a thing to be desired.

 

**Hey babe, what you up to?**

 

The notification of a text from Jughead pops up on the top right of her laptop screen, making Betty sit up a little straighter. She doesn’t feel like interrupting the movie, so Betty walks across the room to pick up her phone from her desk. It’s charged enough for her to unplug it from the cord, and Betty walks back to her bed, crossing her legs as she sits in front of her laptop screen once again, barely paying attention to the movie as the corners of her lips tick up.

 

**Just watching some Netflix**

 

Betty can almost hear the sigh in his voice as his text comes through.

 

**Veronica disappear again?**

 

She loves that he knows her so well. That he knows exactly why she’s binging far too much tv on the evening before Valentine’s Day, on Galentine’s Day.

 

**Can I call you?** comes his next text, and suddenly Betty’s frantically wiping the mascara from under her eyes, roughly smoothing out the thin hair of her eyebrows, and running a hand over her ponytail to check for bumps. She knows he doesn’t care what she looks like, loves her any way she is, but she likes the idea of putting in even the smallest bit of effort for the few times a week they see each other.

 

His reaction is always the same, an astonished gasp and a “damn, I missed your face,” and this time is no different. The screen of her phone freezes every now and then as he moves, his dorm wifi constantly interfering with the quality of their calls, but they’re used to it by now.

 

His hand sifts through the curls at the top of his head, growing longer with every week away from home and a much needed haircut, and Betty bites her lip at the sight. The beanie is nowhere to be found, the tangled mess of his dark locks contrasting against his piercing eyes, and Betty melts at the sight of her boyfriend.

 

She’s completely forgotten about the movie playing in the background, the bickering voices coming from her computer confusing him, and Betty moves to lower the volume, leaning forward in a way that brings her chest the slightest bit closer to her phone camera.

 

“Silver Linings Playbook?” He smirks knowingly.

 

Betty flushes, embarrassed that even he can recognize the movie playing based on the amount of times she’s made him watch it with her during their cross-country FaceTime calls, and Betty shrugs shyly. “I was feeling a bit, uh,” she struggles to come up with the word, knowing he’s tuned into her moods exactly and won’t need much more of an explanation.

 

“Lonely?” he fills in, and as always, he’s right. Betty just nods. “I miss you so much, babe,” he finally adds on, and her heart squeezes in her chest.

 

She knows that tomorrow doesn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things. It’s just another day in the thousands of her life, unimportant if it weren’t for the capitalist ruse of a holiday, and yet she can’t help but miss him more than usual. They saw each other in person over the Christmas break, but that makes it over a month since they’ve seen each other without two computer screens and a few hundred miles between them.

 

“I-I miss you too, Jug,” her voice cracks, and Betty blinks her eyes shut to keep the tears at bay. She doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need this.

 

She can do this.

 

Betty leans forward to rest her phone against her laptop screen and uses her two free hands to readjust her ponytail once more, needing the bite of the tight elastic to pull her hair harder, needing it to ground her. Betty shuffles on her bed as her heartbeat evens out once again.

 

A sharp intake of breath draws her gaze towards the screen of her phone, where Jughead’s eyes seem laser focused on the sight in front of him.

 

“What?” she questions, voice soft but with a slight tremor. The hair of her arms raises slightly, nervous at his reaction. “Jug, what?” she asks again after a beat, more nervous with every second that he doesn’t respond.

 

Finally, he seems to release a heavy sigh through his nose. “Fuck,” he swears, and his hand raises to twirl a curl around his finger, the action drawing Betty’s eyes to his own, the icy blue from before now a navy, dark as the swirling depths of the seas. “What I wouldn’t do to you,” is his only other response, and Betty tries to follow his gaze down from her chest, stomach, to the thin slip of lace at her waist.

 

_ Fuck. _

 

She’d totally forgotten about her lack of skinny jeans.

 

He doesn’t seem bothered, though—or, no, he does, but in the way that sparks heat in Betty’s core, and suddenly her skin is humming another tune.

 

“What  _ would _ you do to me, Juggie?” she whispers softly, smoothly, her tongue licking at the corner of her mouth. She can taste the faint sweetness of her chapstick on her lips. Jughead seems to lick at his own lips as he leans closer to the screen, and Betty nearly lets out a moan at the first two syllables he utters.

 

“Your lips. I’d start there.”

 

“Which ones?” she teases, and Betty feels her core heat up further at the growl that travels across their screens.

 

“Which ones would you like?” he counters, and Betty knows her answer immediately, her legs falling a bit farther apart, exposing more skin at the apex of her thighs to the camera. He chuckles at the action, a throaty laugh that has her choking on her next intake of breath. “Too bad, Betts,” he admonishes. “Only good girls get what they want. Would you be good for me?”

 

Her head tilts back, her eyes shutting as the image of him here, in this room, on her bed—on her—flutters behind her eyelids.

 

“Would you?” he growls now, and Betty whines at the sound.

 

“Yes—yes, Juggie,” she stutters, her whole body thrumming, and she knows she’d do anything for him right now, including relinquishing any control.

 

Normally, she’s the one in charge, him all too willing to let her push them only as far as she’s comfortable. Tonight, however, she needs him. In more ways than one.

 

“We’ll see about that,” he replies, and she knows for sure that he’s caught on to their game by now. He knows exactly what she needs, without her having to spell it out for him. God, she loves him so much.

 

“I’d start with those pretty pink lips, bruise them with my own, part them with my tongue,” he begins, voice deep, and Betty moans through gritted teeth. Thank the heavens above that Alice had decided to bring Polly sneaker shopping in preparation for her upcoming season of spring track.

 

She can be as loud as she wants, but she doesn’t want to give in to him just yet. Sure, she’s fully willing to submit to him tonight, but he’ll still have to work for it.

 

“Explore that mouth of yours,” he continues, his tongue flicking out to lick at his lips as he watches her squirm on the powder pink bedspread. “Hands in your hair, pulling at that ponytail, pulling you towards me.” Betty’s back arches at his words, reaching her own fingers up to tug at her ponytail, imagining his whole hand wrapped up in her blonde locks. “God, baby, that chest,” he breathes out at her movements.

 

Her head’s still tilted backwards, eyes closed, breath ragged, but Betty moves to palm at her right breast under her gray, heart-patterned sweater. She’d worn a festive top every day of the week, leading up to the holiday, and she knows that Jughead’s most definitely smirking at her right now, amused by her outfit choice.

 

“Juggie,” she whines, playing with the top of her bralette, and he shushes her from across the screen. She just wants it off, wants to be free of all the barriers between them. The distance can’t be helped, but her clothes can, and Betty doesn’t have much patience left. Her breasts strain against the lace of her bra, against the cotton of her sweater, and Betty whimpers as her fingers still. She’d said she would be good.

 

“What do you want, baby? Use your words.”

 

“I want,” she pauses, eyes squeezing shut harder against the tears of frustration, of love for her boyfriend who  _ really needs to get a move on. _ “I want it all off.” Her fingers curl around her breast tighter. “I want your hands on me, Jughead.”

 

“Ask nicely,” he admonishes, and her hips grind into the bed as she digs her fingertips into the creamy skin of her breast a bit too hard.

 

“Please,” she finally begs.

 

“Let me see those tits,” he orders, and Betty cries out at the sensation of lace and cotton scratching at her skin as she tears both garments off. Her chest heaves with each ragged breath, the peaks of her nipples hard against her fingers, both hands now at her breasts, playing with them for her—for him. “That’s it, baby,” he praises, “I’d bite them just like that. Graze my teeth against the pebbled skin, litter marks across the top of your chest, underneath, right down the middle of that fucking beautiful cleavage. You want my mouth on your tits, baby? My face buried between them?”

 

“Oh god, yes, Juggie, yes,” she breathes, touching herself as she does. Her hips continue to cant against the fabric of her bedspread, swirling as she moves against it in an effort to create as much friction as possible. Her core throbs with anticipation, the feeling mounting with every rasp of his words.

 

“I’d mouth at your ribs, kiss at the soft skin of your stomach, grip those mind-fucking hips with both of my hands. God, Betts, those hips.” She continues to grind against the bed, moving her hands lower on her stomach, imagining the roughness of his own fingertips running over her, and Betty moans as he does.

 

“Keep going,” he urges, and Betty opens her eyes for the smallest of moments to catch his gaze, darkened with lust as he tracks the movement of her fingers down, over the slope of her hips and ass, down to the apex of thighs. “You’re moving beautifully, gorgeous,” he tells her, and Betty catches sight of his own hand moving lower on the screen, down to where she guesses he’s probably just as aroused as she is. The idea of him touching himself to her show has Betty moaning, fingering the edge of her lacy underwear.

 

“Jug,” she whines, eyes closed once more as she focuses in on his own heavy breathing, timed with each rise and fall of her hips, timed with the fervent stroking of his dick.

 

“You’re doing so good. Keep those tits bouncing for me,” he commands, so she does, completely losing herself to the rhythm of  _ them. _

 

Her fingers continue to run over the top of her panties, the texture of the patterned lace rubbing against her skin, and Betty can just feel her heat burning through the thin fabric at her core.

 

“Please,” she whines, wanting more than anything to sink her fingers further, to circle the spot at the top of her folds that’ll have her crying out his name, to imagine him fucking her with his own two fingers, much larger and rougher than hers. “Please, Jug.”

 

“What is it, baby?” he questions, his own voice harsh and crinkling at the edges as he brings himself closer to completion at the sight of her. Betty only keens harder at the sound.

 

“Juggie, I need you.”

 

“Where do you need me? Where do you need my fingers, my mouth—ah—my dick?”

 

“Everywhere, Juggie,” she cries, the tears finally falling down her cheeks, slipping down her neck. She wishes he was here to lick them off her skin—to bite at her neck until it was dark purple with his love.

 

“Where, Betty?”

 

Her breath catches at the hardness of his voice, his tone. Finally, she gives in. “My-my pussy. I need you in my pussy, Juggie, please.”

 

He waits for another second or two, torturing her for moments that seem far more infinite, and then finally: “Well, since you asked so nicely. Touch yourself, Betty. Take me. Take what you need.”

 

Her hand wastes no time in slipping into her folds, coating her fingers, and Betty sighs out in relief. Her hips grind into her hand at a faster pace, her breasts bouncing up and down as she moves, and Betty slips a finger into her opening, shortly followed by yet another. 

 

“Take what you need,” he repeats, and she does, setting an even harsher pace as she curls her fingers with each thrust, imagining his own length slamming into her, reaching spots inside of her that send her screaming in pleasure. “Grab your tit, Betty,” he orders, and she moves her other hand from her clit to her taut nipples, playing with her chest yet again. She could nearly come like this, his grunts pulling her down with him, but then his voice floats across the screen.

 

“Don’t stop, but turn around, Betty. I want to see that ass shake as you finger yourself.” The thought alone has her moaning loudly, but Betty complies, shifting on her knees as she turns to face the mountain of pillows that was previously behind her, her hips continuing to fuck her hand. “Yes,” she hears him groan, his voice shaky as he stutters, and then he’s coming, and that’s all it takes to send her over the edge, a flash of white exploding like fireworks in the black landscape of her closed eyelids, her hips shaking as her fingers continue to work her pussy while her other hand returns to her clit.

 

When her breathing has finally returned to normal, Betty carefully pulls her fingers from her underwear, which she knows is now most definitely ruined. Carefully, she shifts to turn back to face her boyfriend, who looks just as flushed as she feels.

 

“You okay?” he asks her, and Betty could cry. How’d she find someone so sweet, so caring?

 

“Better than. Thank you, Juggie.”

 

“You better be thankful—that was some hard fucking work,” he smirks, the pun not lost on either of them.  _ God, she loves him. _

 

“If it took so much out of you then maybe we should skip out on tomorrow?” she taunts, bottom lip trapped between her teeth as her eyes sparkle.

 

“No fucking way,” he growls, and her elated chuckles ring out through the empty house. She’d have to remember to thank Veronica later.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave any questions, comments, concerns, or reviews down below. I'd really love to hear your thoughts, especially since this is only my second time writing smut, and I'm a tad bit nervous about it, to be completely honest.
> 
> Much love to you all,  
> Mari


End file.
